I shrugged. “It happens about every two years. I’m used to it.”
“And if your mother were to be released from prison this time?”
“I . . . I would be okay with that.”
“Interesting.”
I hated it when they said that. It meant, This is an issue. This is something I want to take a scalpel to and dissect until you’re lying on the floor, bleeding out from the heart.
“Do you ever think about her being free?” the counselor asked.
I thought about shrugging it off. But instead I went with the truth. “Yes.”
“Does the thought scare you?”
I chewed on my lower lip and inspected the hands in my lap.
“It’s okay to be afraid,” Devon said. “It can manifest itself in lots of ways. Anxiety. Depression.” She paused and watched me. “Difficulty in relationships. Unresolved bitterness. Fear of the future. Even nightmares. Does any of this sound familiar?”
I ignored a rogue tear and met the counselor’s stare. “I think our time is up.”
Chapter Twelve
I had failed.
To put it in football lingo, I’d totally fumbled.
By the time I got to school and downed a Dr Pepper to wash away the bad taste therapy left in my mouth, there’d been only ten minutes left of band. That left little time to engage in extensive and witty banter with Andrew. In fact, the sum total of my conversation with him was something along the lines of, “How’s it going?” To which he’d romantically responded, “Good, dude.”
Was it too presumptuous to interpret “dude” as “my angel-faced love muffin”?
“Molly, I need some help.” I got my lunch tray and picked up a juice. “My homework today is to talk to Andrew and find out when his band plays next.”
“Homework?” She stopped at the cashier and plugged in her student ID to pay. “Did I miss that assignment in pre-cal?”
I handed the cafeteria lady some cash, thanked her, and walked toward our table in the caf. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, time is ticking before the dance.” I recalled my instructions from Ridley. “I need to make conversation with Andrew and show him I’m interested in things he’s interested in.”
She put her tray down on our table. “Where does he usually sit at lunch?”
“Outside. Commons.”
“Then let’s go.”
The warm days of the Indian summer had surrendered to the chillier temps of fall, or as my dad would say, true football weather. A brisk breeze sailed through my wavy bob as we walked outside the side exit of the caf and into the grassy area of picnic tables. The remaining leaves shimmied in flavors of red, gold, and harvest brown, and though I didn’t go crazy for sports like my family did, I loved this time of year. From mid-September to early December, the air carried the distinct scent of football season. And nobody did football like Washington High. Warm days and increasingly cool nights. Games that required layers. Huddling up close with mittened hands around watery concession stand cocoa and a band booster bowl of Frito pie for supper. Extra cheese. Extra Fritos.
We weren’t a super-large school, but we had a coaching staff the local universities frequently tried to recruit, a team of men who turned boys into champions. And it wasn’t just football. WHS had bred high-caliber athletes for decades, causing outsiders to wonder if there really was magic in the air we breathed in Maple Grove. If so, I was clearly wearing invisible nose plugs.
Tonight was an away game, my very favorite kind. With the bus ride, it would provide even more time to talk to Andrew. Or to work on sending him my telepathic loves notes since I couldn’t seem to find my voice when he was near.
I spotted Andrew and his friend Zach at a table near the basketball goals. “There’s not a table nearby.” I was embarrassed to be standing there, hand blocking the noon light from my eyes, surveying the lunchtime masses like I was trolling for guys. Which was exactly what I was doing.
“There may not be a table open,” Molly said. “But I see something even better. There’s just enough room for us to sit down with your boy.”
“Wait—no.” But it was too late. Molly walked to Andrew’s table like a woman on a mission. Like she was a bullet, and they were her bull’s-eye.
“Mind if we sit with you?”
At Molly’s question, both guys looked up from their matching slices of pizza. Her southern accent and throaty voice made it sound alluring instead of intrusive.
“Um, sure.” Andrew scooted over and Molly jerked her head for me to sit down.
“Thanks,” I managed. I slid into the bench, my thighs pressed against Andrew’s. Though it was chilly, I’d worn a pink skirt, and I was grateful I had shaved my legs. A girl just never knew. I would never want stubble to get in the way of me and true love.
“So . . . pizza. I love pizza,” I said. I could almost hear Ridley in my head, laughing. What was it he had told me to do? Get Andrew talking about himself. Okay, I could do this.
Attempt number two.
“Andrew, tell me about yourself.” I repeated Ridley’s words exactly, but they didn’t sound sexy coming from me. They sounded . . . weird and nosy. Like I was trying to decide how much energy I wanted to devote to a possible stalking.
“What do you want to know?” Andrew angled his body toward mine, his face alight with interest.
Oh, my gosh. It had worked. That stuff seriously worked.
What did I want to know? When we could go out. When I could call him my boyfriend. When it was socially acceptable to scribble his name all over my notebooks.
“Tell me about your band,” I said, gaining a smile of approval from Molly.
Andrew looked totally into our conversation now. “The Mushroom Cloud Raincoats.”
Even his band name was adorable. “How did you come up with that?” Andrew answered, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I just watched him, as if in a dream. He was talking to me. And he acted like he wanted to. I wasn’t used to this reaction from guys. Unless they needed my homework. Or wanted free tickets to a game. I didn’t even mind that his shoulder touched mine, that he was in my bubble. Welcome to my bubble, Andrew! I rather liked it. I could do this.
“And then we got our first booking, and the rest is history.”
“Harper loves music.” Molly took a delicate bite of her salad, and I couldn’t help but be envious of the natural grace she possessed. Every move she made was like a dollop of confectionary charm. Why had none of that rubbed off on me? I looked down and noticed I had a piece of romaine on my shirt.
“I play the piano a bit too,” I said. “The classics mostly.”
“Chopin?” Andrew asked. “Bach?”
I swallowed a sip of juice. “Boy bands.”
Zach leaned forward, his elbows on the metal table. “Hey, aren’t you Coach O’Malley’s daughter?”
And like a dart to a balloon, my happy bubble burst.
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy what’s going on.”
“Yep.” Suddenly there wasn’t enough ranch dressing for my salad. For my life. “So Andrew, your band—”
“Seriously.” Zach was not going to let this go. “The news said he’s being harassed and stuff. Ticket holders are mad that he’s ruined the season. Has anyone come after you?”
I felt pretty harassed right now. “No.” I scratched my neck, my skin suddenly itching like I had eaten some bad shellfish. The hives were starting. I knew my skin would be splotchy with red.
“Do you even know this Josie chick?” Zach was a bird dog, shaking this line of conversation like a dead squirrel. “The internet has pics of your dad visiting her at the hospital today.” He dug in his pocket for his phone. “They’re grainy, but it’s totally him.”
“We should go.” I picked up my tray, a yogurt wobbling and dropping to the ground like a grenade. “I have to study for a test.” And check my phone for these photos. I didn’t even care that I was littering. I just had to get out of there. Away from Zach.
“Harper, wait!”
Only ten minutes and then lunch would be over. I could go to the band room and practice my solo for tonight. I could camp out in the library and study or talk to the Dungeons & Dragons guys. I could—
“Hey.” Andrew ran in front of me, pushing his long hair from his worried face. His hands graced my shoulders, and I immediately stepped back at the touch.
So stupid! This was the object of my obsessive affection, and I’d wanted to see those musician’s hands on me for weeks. Why was I so freaking weird?
“Hey, I’m really sorry about that.” Andrew frowned toward the tables where Molly now appeared to be lighting into Zach. “My friend’s an idiot. He didn’t mean to stir things up. The guy has no filter.”
“It’s okay.” I had no skill with repartee. I was no Molly, so I just went with honest. “It’s hard to have your life out there for everyone to read about in the papers or see on TV. We’ve always been in a fishbowl, but never like this.” And everything was still raw, like a sore that wouldn’t heal.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I didn’t know about it until Zach told me.” His friend was a total tool. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine.” Mostly. Occasionally. “Andrew?”
“Yeah?”
Ask him about himself. Ask him about his interests. Ask him when his band plays next. “Do you want to go to the band dance with me?”
“What?” His face froze, like the last seconds of a soap opera before it cuts to a commercial break.
No, no, no! It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I was supposed to say clever things! Learn more about him! Flirt and toss my hair!
It was ruined.
It wasn’t true that I had no game. I had horrendously awful game.
My words flew in a scrambled rush. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
He merely stood there and frowned.
Cursing my past, my future, and this present moment, I did a perfect marching band pivot.
And marched away from Andrew Levin.
* * *
I wanted to die.
I wanted to evaporate into the popcorn-scented air until the only thing left of me was my stupid bowl hat and red fluffy plume.
At five thirty, I climbed off the band bus, grabbed my trumpet, and focused every bit of energy I had left on not sitting in the parking lot of Randolph High School and bawling my eyes out.
Do you want to go to the band dance with me?
Where had that even come from? How could I go from romantically paralyzed one minute to full-on aggressive the next? I blamed reality TV. Dating shows. The weirdo counselor dredging up all that junk from my past. And that stupid friend of Andrew’s. All his questions. A smothering feeling had come over me, like someone had pulled a sleeping bag over my entire body, trapping my arms and legs—frantic with no way out.
I had totally spazzed. My brain had moved at warp speed, searching for a conversation distraction, and I had certainly found it. And to make matters worse, I found the photos Andrew’s friend had alluded to. Yep, it was there on the internet, all right. My dad coming out of the very hospital that was taking care of Josie Blevins.
“Where’s Andrew?” Molly’s head rotated like a periscope. “I didn’t see him on the bus.”
“Probably getting a restraining order.”
“Harper, you asked a boy out. Big deal. If he can’t handle it, then forget him. He should’ve thrown himself at your feet in gratefulness.”
“He was probably too busy trying not to throw up on my feet.” Andrew had not been on the band bus to Randolph, home of the Roosters, one of the saddest mascots ever. Was Andrew so desperate to avoid me he had stayed home?
“O’Malley, front and center!” Mr. Sanchez called into his stupid bullhorn. “I wanna hear that solo pronto.”
While the rest of the band continued chatting about the lives they had not completely screwed up, I stood next to Mr. Sanchez and somehow played my part of our selection from Wicked.
“O’Malley, where’s your head?” He put his hands on his ample hips. “You repeated that last stanza twice. You missed the high B again. Are you ready for this or not?”
“Yes.” My hands shook as I held my beloved horn. “I can do this.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Today I accidentally asked a boy out.”
“See if Mrs. Sanchez has some Pepto-Bismol for that.” His stubby fingers tapped some notes on his iPad. “Take it from the top.”
We soon lined up to fill our seats on the end of the visitor side bleachers. Tears pressed at my burning eyes. It wasn’t that I was ashamed I had put myself out there. That was quite modern of me. No, it was Andrew’s face. His slackened jaw. The eyes that went wide as cymbals. In my dreams, he wouldn’t have reacted that way. Of course, in my dreams, he would’ve been the one doing the asking. Maybe I was delusional, and Andrew was completely out of my league.
I had just placed my black shoe on the ramp leading to the bleachers when I heard my name. “Harper!”
Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse.
Dad.
He stood next to Mom and Cole. He wore a gray hoodie, dark jeans, and a cap that hid part of his face. He looked like a regular father, and not the coach who had become a national disgrace. I could hardly bring myself to make eye contact because all I saw were those photos of Dad and his girlfriend. I wanted to say something so bad. Did Mom know he’d been to see her?
“Your mom said you had a solo.” Dad started to rest his arm across my shoulders, but seemed to think better of it. “I wanted to see you play.”
What was he even doing here? And with Mom? Cole stood between them. Mom smiled at me, but she couldn’t hide the shadows beneath her eyes, the strain at her mouth, the hands clutched in front of her.
“Thanks for coming,” I said woodenly. “I better go find my seat.”
“You’ll do wonderful.” Mom gave me a side hug and straightened the collar of my jacket. The tension radiating from her was so obvious, I felt like I could reach out and grab it like a fluttering moth. “Knock ’em dead, kiddo.”
Oh, I’d already pretty much killed it tonight. “Thanks. See you later.”
“Harper, wait.”
My dad stepped in front of my path. “I’ve missed you.”
“Yeah.” There I was again, a regular wordsmith. I could almost see Dad’s unspoken thoughts hovering over his head, but I wasn’t ready to hear them. And the home of the Roosters wasn’t the place.
“Your brothers are coming over tomorrow. I’m grilling. Making your favorite burgers.”
“Is Mom coming?”
He chewed his lip. “No.”
“Is your girlfriend going to be there?”
I’d never seen him so still. “No. Just us. Come on, Harper. I know you said you needed some time, but you can’t keep shutting me out. I just want to spend time with you. And we need to talk.”
The band had climbed to the top of the bleachers, and I saw Molly lean over and wave me on.
“I need to go.” My head was a mess. Like the dregs of an ice-cream sundae, the brown watery goo left in the bottom of the bowl.
“See you tomorrow evening?”
I didn’t even respond. Walking away, I made my way up the steps, my feet like lead. My heart was somewhere in the vicinity of my gut. I’d just reached the top and set my trumpet down, when I saw the first flash of the camera. Then heard the reporter call out.
“Coach O’Malley! A moment of your time, sir!”
“Coach O’Malley! Over here!”
“It is O’Malley!”
From my vantage point high above the stadium, I could see it all.
One reporter turned into three. Then five.
Soon Dad was swarmed.
He lifted a hand, like a seasoned Hollywood star blocking the paparazzi’s lenses.
“No comment,” I heard him say.
The parents in the stands noticed the ruck
us, and some stood to get a better look.
I watched Mom move Cole to the side, pulling him into the shadows.
Dad limped away. His life once again center stage.
And my solo forgotten.
Chapter Thirteen
On Saturday, I woke up with a humiliation hangover.
I spent the day moping about, mostly checking Andrew’s social media for statuses like, Can teenagers get restraining orders? or Does anyone know how to detox from delusional girls? I was relieved that by evening, he hadn’t posted a thing. But maybe there was a message in his silence. The dating world was seriously the most messed up place ever. I wanted to defect to a different planet where boys were not allowed.
By five o’clock, I sat in the back of my brother’s Mustang listening to him and Cole rehashing last night’s game. Being the guys they were, they avoided all talk of the reporters swarming Dad. It was all yardages, passes, kicks, and hey, did you see when that cheerleader nearly lost her skirt? I didn’t care about any of it.
Because I had asked Andrew out. You’d think hearing “no” in response would be the worst outcome. But actually, it was hearing . . . nothing. I had funneled all my wounded pride and anger into my halftime solo performance, and I had rocked that stadium.
But it had been a hollow victory.
Now my brothers and I were interstate-bound to visit dad for this stupid barbecue. While some of my best memories were cookouts with dad, I still quaked inside at the thought of sitting in his rental house for a few hours, chatting it up as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t screwed us all over, and the whole state didn’t want his head on a platter.
As if he might not ever come back home.
“You’re speeding, Michael.”
My brother shot me a glare in the rearview. “You’ve been a hag all day. What’s your deal?”
“Nothing.” My deal was that I didn’t understand boys. My life. The world in general.
“Well, whatever it is, suck it up.” Michael gave a quick incline of his head toward Cole. It was a warning to be on my best behavior for the sake of our little brother.
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